


in creases of distant dark places

by tosca1390



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she cannot sleep, she walks circuits through the camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in creases of distant dark places

*

Sansa Stark rides out from the Vale leading Harrold Hardyng’s knights, flanked by the brothers Lannister. Flurries catch in her hair and on her cloak. She is glad to be away from the physical memories of so much loss, from Harry’s leering gaze.

“You don’t have to come with us, my lady,” Tyrion says as they ride through the snow. The sun peeks out from grey clouds, sending a sharp glare into their eyes. “You would be safer in the Vale.”

“I have no need of hiding in the Vale any longer,” she says, straight-backed and looking forward. She is finished with secrecy and deception.

“The North calls you home, Lady Stark?” Jaime Lannister drawls at her right.

She glances at him, an odd sort of tingling in her gloved fingertips. His gaze is green and heavy on her and she can feel the flush curling up the back of her neck. “It does, ser.”

“Then North you will go,” he says with a short smile before he turns his horse to the side and rides along the outer edges of the men. Her eyes follow him for a short time before she turns forward again.

After a beat, she notices Tyrion’s eyes on her. “Is something wrong, my lord?”

His mouth twists up, and he shakes his head. “Nothing at all, my lady.”

*

As always, Sansa sleeps in fits and snatches. Sometimes it is her father’s face that haunts her; other times the soft songs of Marillion leave her in a cold sweat. She hears her young cousin Robert’s dying breaths, and her aunt Lysa’s screams as she falls from the Moon Door’s ledge. So when she cannot sleep, she walks circuits through the camp. She used to walk the corridors of the castles, but open air will have to do.

It seems that Jaime Lannister has the same insomnia she does, for their paths align nightly.

At first, they do not speak. She curtsies and he bows, but that is the extent of it at first. She is intimidated by him, truthfully; he is the Kingslayer, and he fought against her brother Robb, and his family has brought her quite a bit of pain. But he is the one who found her, though she does not know how, and he is the one who repeatedly says he will take her North. So she has to have some sort of faith in that, though she knows more than anyone that the oaths of knights can be as fluid as water.

On the fifth night, they pass each other under a snow-dappled tree. The air is warming as they approach the outer reaches of the Vale, but the snow remains in patches. It is not the same snow as a Winterfell snow, she still remembers that much.

“Ser Jaime,” she calls to him, after their usual silent courtesies.

He stops and turns back to him, a small uptick to the corner of his mouth. “My lady.”

“You have sworn to take me to Winterfell. Why?” she asks, curling her fingers into the folds of her cloak.

In the dim starlight, his face is immovable. “A Lannister pays his debts. I swore an oath and I mean to keep it.”

“An oath to who?” She asks because she is curious as to who would care so much for the last Stark left, other than for selfish purposes.

His brow furrows and his mouth twists. “Your lady mother.”

Something in her chest cracks open at that, an unfamiliar hot press of tears behind her eyes. “My mother has been dead for nearly five years,” she says after a moment, voice admirably even. Littlefinger taught her well, she thinks to herself absently.

Jaime huffs, a hard ragged sound. “I know. I’m sorry for it. But my oath remains.”

Sansa presses her hands to her middle, the longing for home stirring there so strongly, she feels weak in the knees. “Is that why it was you who found me?”

Suddenly he is near her side, his golden hand braced under her elbow. “As much as I’d like all the credit, lady, I had help. But yes, I have been looking for you.”

She looks up into his face, tracing the lines there around his eyes and mouth with her gaze. For all the battles and the years on his shoulders, he is still fiercely handsome, strikingly so. Swallowing hard, she lays her hand on his wrist. She can feel the separation from warm skin to cool gold through the fabric of his tunic. “Thank you,” she says, for a lack of anything else.

He nods, staring at her intently. She can see his jaw tighten under his skin. Flushing, she slips away with a nod and hurries back to her tent, her heart fluttering hard against her ribs.

*

The next night, he is the one to stop her.

“What keeps you from your bed, my lady Stark?” he asks with a curl of his mouth, sitting against a starkly bare tree trunk amidst leaves and dirt. They’ve left the snow of the Vale behind at last, signaling a new leg to their journey towards the Dragon Queen. His sword lay dormant across his lap.

Twigs crunch under her feet. She stands in front of him, curling into her cloak. “Tonight it is a musician. Last night it was my father. Tomorrow night it may be my sister. I couldn’t tell you for certain until then,” she says evenly.

He leans back, eyes trailing over her carelessly. “Never Littlefinger, I imagine.”

“No,” she bites out. “Not him.”

“I wouldn’t feel guilty over him either. I’d planned to kill him myself,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry you beat me to it.”

A chill slips down her spine. “Littlefinger never learned to watch his steps. That’s all,” she says.

Jaime tilts his head to the side, smiling without warmth. “You’ve done well for yourself, little bird. No one blames you for surviving.”

“You’d be surprised how many would,” she retorts.

He grits out a harsh laugh, face lined with shadows. “No, I don’t believe I would be. He was a bastard who sent those of your blood and mine to their deaths. I’m glad he’s gone,” he says, voice darkening.

She feels as if he’s laid out a portion of his self to her there, bare and shining with scars in the starlight. “And what keeps you up this night, ser?”

He looks down at his sword, his golden hand resting on the hilt. “The Maid of Tarth. One of the bravest knights I knew,” he says quietly.

The melancholia settles heavily between them. She feels close to tears in a way she hasn’t for a long time; she does not even know of what he speaks, but the sadness ripples through their shared air. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.

Jaime meets her gaze once more, face set into hard lines. “What is it about you that has men talking, Sansa Stark?” he asks, not angrily. His tone is flat.

She straightens, lifting her chin. “It is Lady Stark, ser. And I could not tell you,” she says, trying so hard to echo her late mother in the moment.

They hold each other’s gazes for a long moment before he breaks, and looks back down at his sword. “Good night, my lady,” he says.

“Good night, ser,” she says in turn, inclining her head and moving past him to complete her usual circuit of the tents. For the rest of the night, she cannot think of anything but his mouth, and his eyes.

*

It continues as such through their journey. Jaime teases and mocks during the day, and it is infuriating. The casual mentions of Littlefinger, of Harry, they drive her to distraction and she wants to lash back so badly. She suffers from a lack of ammunition, though; she knows the truth behind Mad Aerys’s death from Littlefinger, and she cannot fault Jaime for it.

But at night—at night, he speaks carefully and gentle, as if he understands what drives her from her fragile sleep. They are cut from the same cloth, she thinks when she is alone in her tent and smoothing the flush from her skin. Perhaps he just finds sporting with her amusing, and is taking pity on her in their shared sleeplessness, but she wants to find out for sure.

For the first time in her life, Sansa wants more than just to survive. She wants to live her life.

*

As Sansa enters his tent, Tyrion Lannister, Hand to Daenerys Targaryen, sits at a makeshift desk. It’s large, but not as large as the Queen’s. The patter of rain is heavy against the roof, the air damp and chilled. Rain has come to every camp they’ve made on their way to King’s Landing, and it leaves Sansa clammy and weary. She would prefer snow to this wet chill.

“You sent for me, my lord Lannister?” she asks as she curtsies. Since bringing the knights and the supplies of the Vale to the aid of the Dragon Queen, her old court-learned courtesies have resurfaced, as muscle memory. She’s glad for it, as it keeps her tongue from running away with her in front of those who need no more of her secrets.

Such as the man before her. “Lady Stark,” Tyrion says without looking up, his shaggy head bowed over scrolls. “The Queen has thought over your requests and deems them appropriate.”

For the first time in years, Sansa’s heart skips a hopeful beat. “You mean—“

“You will be our lady Queen’s guardian of the North. Winterfell and the North are yours by the Queen’s leave,” Tyrion says.

She breathes out slowly, warmth curling through her veins. “Thank you, ser.”

“Thank our Queen. She is most generous,” he says, finally looking up at her. In the candlelight, his profile softens. “When we reach King’s Landing, I will also have the High Septon set aside our marriage.”

That surprises her. Mostly, it is because she always forgets she is technically married to him. “That is…quite kind of you, my lord,” she says finally, voice even.

He smiles then, a sharp crooked thing through the scars of his face. “The marriage was just as forced upon me as it was you. I have no wish to keep either of us in such an arrangement, Sansa. It wouldn’t make me happy, that’s certain.”

Sansa smoothes her hands over her deep blue skirts, fingers catching on the rough fabric. “I’m sorry if I was cruel to you,” she says after a long moment.

Tyrion looks at her for a long moment, stare unnerving. “You were young, Sansa, and in a difficult position, and I was not the husband you hoped for. I am fully aware of how frightening I am to the young and the beautiful,” he says dryly.

She twists her fingers together in front of her, lifting her chin. “Littlefinger told me that it was all a part of the plan he’d set in motion,” she says after a moment, coming further into the faint warmth of the tent.

He gestures for her to sit near his desk, and she does, gratefully. “Did he now?” he says, mouth twisting.

“He put the thought into your sister’s and your father’s minds,” she says. “Pairing us together made it easier to slip me away, once Joffrey died. You would immediately come under suspicion.”

His gaze turns hard and calculating. “You know, I’m quite mad at myself for not figuring him out sooner,” he muses evenly. “He certainly had it all worked out, didn’t he.”

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek on a sharp smile and ducks her head slightly. Her hair, loose and unmanageable in the constant damp, falls across her cheek. “Not everything, my lord,” she says evenly, thinking of the Moon Door, and the vengeance wrought on Petyr on behalf of her family. That was one death that did not haunt her sleep or stain her hands.

“No, I suppose not. Or else I would be in a fresh hell with my father right now,” Tyrion said. He sounded more amused than bitter. “He taught you well.”

“King’s Landing taught me before Littlefinger ever tried,” she replies.

He laughs a little roughly then, and gets to his feet. He moves more slowly than she remembers. She wonders about his time across the Seas, and how he came to the Dragon Queen’s side, but it is not her place to ask. Besides, she’s too tired for stories.

“I am sorry for the trouble my family caused you. Joffrey was a foolish bully, and Cersei was too wrapped up in her own quest for power to care for anything else. We’re better off without them, really,” he says, pouring her a cup of wine and bringing it to her.

She sips, warmth moving through her as the wine does. “Does your lord brother think so as well?” she asks. Littlefinger had told her things about the Queen and the Kingslayer, but she could hardly bring herself to care what the Lannisters did with each other, as long as they left her be.

Tyrion grimaces as he sits once more, shrugging. “Jaime’s come to terms with it. Cersei changed when she married Robert and became Queen. The power turned her into something else entirely, and we both knew it.” He swallows half of his wine and puts his cup down, the pewter ringing dully against the wood of his desk. “There is something about you that makes men talk, Sansa Stark.”

She flushes then, a sharp burst of color at the tops of her cheeks. “I do not mean to pry, my lord,” she says. She still feels on the edge of the precipice, and she does not want to lose the tenuous grasp on her future.

He shakes his head and drinks deeply. “You haven’t. In any case, I’m not the only one who thinks it. My brother is especially fond of you.”

Her mouth goes dry as she think of Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. Since rejoining the main forces, she has not seen him. But she thinks of him often, without warning or reason. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Now, Sansa. I think you do,” he says with a sharp twisted grin. “There’s no need to be coy, not when you know the game so well.”

The back of her neck flushes. “I only wish to return to Winterfell,” she says evenly.

“And my brother will make sure you get there,” Tyrion says.

After a few more moments, she excuses herself to return to her tent. In the faint rain, she walks through mud and grass towards her tent, fingers tight on the raised hood of her cloak. She thinks of searching out her once-brother Jon, but the years have brought too much between them. He’s something else entirely than the quiet sometimes sullen boy she grew up with, and she thinks he doesn’t know what she’s become either.

Sometimes, she wonders that herself.

The night is cool and cloudy. Around her, the ambient sounds of the encampment keep her company as she walks. She thinks she can hear the rustle and roar of the dragons, of which she’s only seen brief glances. They are just days from King’s Landing now. The Freys and Boltons have been left in ruins by the Dragon Queen and Jon, and the memory keeps her warm. Stannis is all that’s left, and he trembles in King’s Landing, his sworn men depleted and deserting him. The Martells and the Tyrells will join them by tomorrow’s encampment.

She can’t follow all the moves of the Iron Throne as they’ve mapped out, but she knows she’s on the winning side now.

“Lady Stark, you are out of your tent rather late.”

She pauses near a dark leafy tree and turns. In the dim light from the torches and tents, Jaime Lannister stands just steps from her, casually dressed in dark loose garments, his sword belted at his hip. A shock of sandy hair falls across his brow. It’s the first time they’ve met in the darkness since arriving at the encampment.

“Ser Lannister,” she says after a moment, her heart lodged near her throat.

“Little birds shouldn’t be out in the dark with this kind of company,” he drawls, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

She draws herself up to height and fixes a cool stare on him. “I’m not particularly fond of that nickname,” she says.

“Perhaps that’s why I like it,” he says, taking three long steps towards her.

Tilting her chin up, she keeps his gaze. “You know why I’m out so late, ser,” she says softly, warmth pooling in her middle. She can’t remember this sensation, so close to fear but warm and inviting.

He smiles, a sad sort of crooked thing. His good hand touches her elbow. “We are the odd ones out, Lady Stark. The last of our kinds.”

“Sansa,” she says abruptly, cheeks high with color. “Please call me Sansa.”

Jaime stills, jaw working under his skin. “That’s rather forward for the lady of Winterfell,” he says after a moment, voice tight but still teasing.

Something unfurls in her middle as he speaks. Her breath catches in her throat. “I am the lady of Winterfell,” she repeats, voice breaking. She hadn’t thought about what that meant until he spoke the words out loud.

His grip on her elbow tightens. “You have nothing to worry over. You handled Littlefinger admirably. The North is nothing next to him,” he says, voice a hard drawl.

She leans against the near tree trunk, the sharp bark pressing into her back. “It was never supposed to be me,” she says quietly after a moment. The words have circled through her mind over and over in recent times, ever since the Lannister brothers arrived at the Eyrie and she knew she was found and saved. Why she gives them to Jaime and not to her once-brother Jon, she cannot say. It’s a pull deep in her belly that she can’t ignore.

“It is you, though. There’s not much to help you otherwise,” he says with a slight smile. His hand is an easy pressure on her elbow. She wonders how it would feel against the thin skin of her throat or between her thighs.

A breeze shivers between them, leaves rustling overhead. “You said we were two of a kind, ser?” she asks after a moment, watching his face.

He smirks then, a shock of hair falling against his brow. “Birds of a feather. Don’t you think so?”

She knows the look in his eyes; she’d seen it on Petyr and on Harry often enough when their eyes went to her. This time, she likes it.

Licking her lips, she steps into him, her chest barely brushing his. “Ser, I would have you escort me to Winterfell.”

“My lady, I have already said I would,” he says dryly.

“But I would have you do it for reasons other than an oath,” she presses.

His mouth softens but his gaze darkens. She is glad for the dimness, so he cannot see her flush. “I am, Sansa,” he says finally, voice rough.

Perhaps it’s foolish, and perhaps unwarranted, but she is tired of living in fear and shadows. So she rises up on her toes and presses her mouth to his. He kisses back, his lips warm and smooth on hers. His good hand slips up to the curve of her cheek, fingers cool against her flushed skin. He presses her against the tree trunk. On pure instinct she shifts, allows his leg to press between hers.

“Sansa,” he whispers against her mouth, voice low and ragged. “Is this what you learned at the Vale?”

Huffing, she throws her head back against the tree trunk as his mouth follows the line of her throat. “The Vale has nothing to do with this,” she says, her hands resting on his chest.

His smile is crooked against the thin skin of her neck. “Still, I’ll be gentle.”

“Don’t be anything unless I ask you to,” she retorts with a gasp.

“You do have spirit now, don’t you,” he says, all heavy amusement. The fingers of his good hand twist in her hair and run down the line of her arm to her waist. She feels the warmth, even through the thick fabric of her gown, and something in her body sighs into his touch.

“I’ve grown up. That’s all,” she murmurs.

He raises his head, their gazes meeting. His mouth curves upwards. She reaches out to touch the hair falling across his brow. “Yes, you have,” he says quietly.

Licking her lips, she lets her hands fall to her sides once more. He steps back from her; cool air fills the space between their bodies, and she shivers. The rain has stopped, leaving just a thick dampness in the air.

“Once the battle is won, we will go North,” he says, gaze full of a different kind of promise.

“And your debt will be repaid,” she says quietly.

He tilts his head, watching her carefully. “You know me, lady. It’s possible I will do something to incur your debt once more before we part,” he drawls.

Sansa bites her lip on a smile, a flush running up the nape of her neck. Jaime inclines his head, bowing just slightly at the waist. His hand on her waist slips away as he walks towards his camp, but she could feel the tightening of his fingers, the lingering there.

She remains under the tree for a few moments longer. Her mouth is still warm from his.

That night, she sleeps, and she does not dream. It’s the most relief she’s had in years.

*


End file.
